


Jumper

by mutemail



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Burns, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Wings catching fire, Wounds, kind of, physical changes to a corporation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22807141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutemail/pseuds/mutemail
Summary: All at once his body feels as though it’s been set aflame. A scream pierces the air, it’s only moments later that Aziraphale realizes it’s his own cry, and then the inky floor drops from beneath him. Cold air rushes by him as he goes in a free-fall, merciless to gravity itself and praying desperately for the burning to cease.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	Jumper

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the song Jumper by Third Eye Blind (and a little bit of Savior by Rise Against). Had this sitting in my ideas document for months before I finally ponied up to write it. Take note of the tags even though it doesn’t HAPPEN there’s imagery and implied desires to act on it / suspicions of it happening. I also got Aziraphale’s fallen angel name from the lovely GhostofEden who gave me permission to use the name they’d come up with in their fic I Am Wasting Away Without You. Find a link to their fic [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422337)! Anyway, as usual I hope you all enjoy!

Everything had happened so quickly there was barely time to give it any thought. The start was gradual enough, though, a singular grey feather in this wings where they rest in another plane, needing to double-take at the mirrors and windows passing them by, the occasional twinge of _something_ otherworldly, a lacking in his chest that he couldn’t explain before it dissipated once more. Maybe those should have been warning enough; maybe he felt invincible. Ineffable.

The clock chimes three as steam rises steadily from Aziraphale’s cup. He takes a leisurely sip with a smile curved on his lips. A beautiful sonata is being scratched out on the record player, notes and melodies curling into the air with a pleasing trill. The music dips to a lower octave for a melancholy drag. The angel of the Eastern gate can feel his wings preening in the ether. He gives them a slight shake before returning to his tea.

He blinks. Darkness. Had he not just been in his shop? Aziraphale goes to push himself up from the chair only to find his body immobile. Fear captures his heart in one fell swoop.

“Hello?”

No answer greets him but he can feel another presence. A strong, powerful being existing somewhere in this endless darkness with all of their attention trained on him. Aziraphale moves his hand to his chest, thankful for the small mercies, and peers into the darkness as if to spot a shift in the shroud.

**Hello, Aziraphale. It’s been a while.**

Immediately his breath catches in his throat and a nervous sweat begins to build on his brow. It’s customary when being addressed by the higher ups. Surely something has gone awry in his corporation to give him such human anxieties. There’s no logical reason to be nervous. The following silence deafens him. All he can feel is the traitorous beating of his heart.

**I cannot guide you any longer. Do not worry, do not weep. Trust that this is for the best.**

“Wait-- wait, wait. I don’t understand.”

The voice doesn’t answer. All at once his body feels as though it’s been set aflame. A scream pierces the air, it’s only moments later that Aziraphale realizes it’s his _own_ cry, and then the inky floor drops from beneath him. Cold air rushes by him as he goes in a free-fall, merciless to gravity itself and praying desperately for the burning to cease.

Time fails to compose itself as he descends, wisps of clouds shooting past him further into the depths of the sky. Aziraphale twists and claws desperately over his shoulders to reach his burning wings, hissing at the searing flesh and watching as burnt feathers are torn away, dissipating to ash midair.

All at once he finds himself back in his shop laid out on his back. There’s a distinct emptiness in his chest. Where there once was love bursting from the seams of him there’s a deflated hole, a pit that aches to be filled, somewhere he’s now rendered incomplete. Aziraphale raises a hand to lay it over his heart, not missing the catch of sharpened nails over the fine material. It isn’t in him to care.

It takes ages to peel himself off the floor in search of a mirror. He can feel the burnt flesh of his wings crying as the skin moves, cracking open half-healed scabs, black ichor running from the slivers of exposed skin underneath. How long had he lain there? Aziraphale finds his way to the back of the shop where a large mirror hangs in the hallway between the front of house and his more personal quarters.

When he steps through the awning of the hall he stops, transfixed. Crowley. He’d taken Crowley here dozens upon dozens of times. For wine, for snacks, for meetings-turned-chatter, for any excuse to see him under the guise of work. The pit in his chest caves deeper. He clasps his clawed hands in front of his stomach before taking another step into the hall and turning to the mirror. Best assess the damage before getting too carried away in the intricacies of this newfound issue. Aziraphale stands for a moment, eyes downcast, before finally raising them.

To say it’s shocking is an understatement. Perhaps it isn’t too much of a change, as far as appearances go, but he finds himself disgusted at each difference he notes. His hair has turned an odd ashen color and his eyes have gone completely black. Behind him, he sees the charred remains of his wings. They’re just stumps now, really, what with missing all the feathers and being burnt half to Hell already. He takes another steadying breath.

The claws on his hands are the next thing he notices. Of course, they’d already pulled some threads on his coat on accident so he’d been aware of that. The ends of his fingers are a bit more narrow heading into them. They’re raised and rounded like those of some sort of marsupial. He turns his hands over until he’s satisfied at having gotten a proper look, then returns his attention back to his face where he bares his teeth in the mirror. The canines on his top and bottom teeth have elongated themselves, the bottom ones in front and the tops hooking over them towards the back when his jaw is closed tight. He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly to watch them.

Curiosity sated, he glances back to his shop. Thankfully nothing had been damaged when he landed back on Earth, though he doubts he would be in any condition to force socialization, especially considering how fussy he is in regards to the shop on a good day. Aziraphale scampers to the front of the shop to lock the door and flip over a CLOSED sign.

Time fades into an incomprehensible series, after that. Aziraphale disconnects the phone line to the shop and tries continuously to tell himself it’s to avoid customers not his best friend. His best friend who he hasn’t spoken to in some time, his best friend who averted Armageddon with him, his best friend who stood by his side even when his heart would ache-- Aziraphale scolds his rambling mind. Best think of other things until this settles.

But when will it? He’s found himself far too ashamed to look in mirrors, covering them all with thin sheets to mask his reflection, so how could he let _Crowley_ see him this way? The shame is almost too much to bear. The claws on his fingers and darks of his sclera only serve as a reminder that he’s not with God anymore. He’s fallen. No longer Crowley’s _angel_. His stomach twists at the nickname. Would Crowley be ashamed of him now?

He bites his lip and turns back to his desk, settling down for another evening of forced solitude when a noise from the street catches his attention. Aziraphale peers from behind a display out the front window to see the Bentley squealing to a halt in front of the shop’s front door. People hustle on the sidewalk on their phones or chatting with each other, certainly paying no mind to the man rushing up to the bookshop.

Crowley pushes at the door. No dice. He takes note of the CLOSED sign hanging on one of the windows before cupping his hands and looking in. Not a single creature in sight. Maybe Aziraphale has gone out. Regardless, he needs to get inside to make sure no one’s inside.

Crowley rounds to the right window, peering in through the piles of books cluttering the display. He cups his hands before glancing inside for any sight of his angel. Immediately, he notices a figure bouncing nervously at the door. Sure as the sky is blue that’s Aziraphale there, nervously twiddling and staring at the door from behind a bookshelf. Crowley raps his knuckles gently against the glass, sucking in a breath of surprise when the figure turns to face him.

It hadn’t been clear before but now he can tell that Aziraphale’s hair has gone from the lovely white-blond shade to an almost grey, not quite silvery but in a shade all of its own. Crowley watches as the angel’s eyes widen only for the darkness to not ebb away. Aziraphale’s entire eye, sclera and all, are pitch black. A panicked look comes over the angel’s face as Crowley’s chest seizes. He’s not an angel anymore. He’s fallen.

“Aziraphale! Let me in, we need to talk--” Crowley doubles back to the front door to try the handle, trying to will it to open with every fiber of his being. He bows his forehead to the flaking paint and concentrates, palm over the metal plates that serve as handles. The lock pops itself open almost shamefully. Crowley shoves open the doors with barely concealed urgency.

Aziraphale has begun to backpedal, nervously flitting inwards towards his shop whilst giving pained looks over his shoulder at Crowley. There’s a wrinkle in his brow that seems pained.

“I wouldn’t answer your calls for a reason, why can’t you respect that?” He steels himself behind a display where he’s partially obscured, thankful that Crowley can’t see him any longer. The demon steps further into the shop and starts around the display, forcing them into an odd back and forth circle to keep and close the distance with each move.

“Aziraphale you can’t just not let me know you need space. If you do I can respect that but I need to know you’re safe.” Crowley stops circling the display to stand with his hands face up, trying to look as passive as he can. His eyes haven’t left Aziraphale’s face this entire time. Guilt begins to rise in his chest as reality sets in. Did he fall because of Crowley? Did the arrangement do this?

No answer greets him. Aziraphale won’t meet his eyes. Crowley takes one tentative step, seeing if he will continue to circle away, then another when he doesn’t. When he reaches the other side of the table he gently rests his hands on the bends of Aziraphale’s elbows, keeping them facing each other.

“I’ve been where you are, angel--” Crowley sees the flinch and frowns, “but you will get through this. I know it hurts, you feel empty and scared, you don’t recognize the person in the mirror, but everything will be fine. Letting me help with make it easier.”

Aziraphale’s bottom lip trembles traitorously. He blinks back tears before looking up at Crowley, trying his best not to immediately shy away from the contact. Every rational thought is screaming to push Crowley away, to keep himself hidden from the world, that every word dripping from his mouth is a lie.

“I-- don’t think you should be calling me that for a while.” His voice is dangerously close to cracking, wobbling dangerously. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. Nothing has the same meaning.”

Aziraphale sniffles, holding to Crowley’s sleeves now like a lifeline.

“Listen, you’re a beacon of light in this cruel world. Just because She won’t be here doesn’t mean you can’t do good on your own accord. Think of all the miracles that you can do now without Gabriel and those other wankers auditing them. You can bend the rules, you can-- you can--, we don’t even _have_ rules! Well, we do, but you get what I mean.” Crowley guides Aziraphale further into the shop towards a couch. It’s an ugly thing, been around for ages, but it’ll do the trick. He sits them down. “You are the most selfless being that She ever created and She’s a fool to let you fall.”

He nods the entire time whilst wiping at stray tears with his sleeve. The ache in his chest ebbs slightly but still stares at his soul dauntingly. Aziraphale shakes his shoulders and rears his head.

“I suppose you are right, my dear, it’s just so terribly difficult to remain optimistic right now. I’m not an angel anymore but I don’t believe I’d make a good demon, either, so I suppose that makes us even more on our own side, now doesn’t it?”

Crowley allows himself to brush away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb, nodding along.

"It's going to take some getting used to but you're strong. You've got this under control, I know it. We can sweat out the details later but for the time being let me be here for you to help you through it. I know a trick or two." Back to his usual cunning grin to try and rise a smile out of his beloved. Crowley shifts on the couch into a more casual stance. "Now, how about some crepes?"

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments fuel my writing! By the way, I made Aziraphale a possum. I’ve always thought he would be some variety of rodent. I hope the ending was alright as well, I wasn't quite sure how to leave it off but figured a little running gag between them might lighten the mood.


End file.
